


Questions

by hedda62



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-15
Updated: 2011-08-15
Packaged: 2017-10-22 15:45:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hedda62/pseuds/hedda62
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles can't stop asking questions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Questions

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [Philomytha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philomytha/pseuds/Philomytha) in the [2011_bujold_fest](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/2011_bujold_fest) collection. 



> To fill the prompt "Miles and Bothari during Miles's childhood - perhaps Bothari coaching Miles for the Academy entrance, or playing with him as a child, or anything with them interacting." Not entirely lighthearted fun, sorry - can't help the foreshadowing somehow...

The sun was hot in the pavilion at Vorkosigan Surleau, though the breeze made sitting there quite pleasant. Cordelia adjusted her hat. According to Alys she'd come back from the last holiday here looking like she'd spent two weeks on a camel -- an image borrowed from one of Ivan's vids, most likely -- and since it was no real sacrifice to keep her face, neck and arms relatively pale and unfreckled in accordance with Stuffy Vor sensibilities, she stayed well-covered. All but her deliciously bare, tanned feet. She wriggled her sun-worshipping toes and settled back, hoping to doze off while she had the chance.

It might be a short chance, though. From the path below, she began to hear two voices, one deep and rumbly and one high-pitched and persistent. Luckily -- or maybe it wasn't luck but the Sergeant's tact -- Miles and Bothari stopped at a lower level, probably on the shady bench just before the last curve. Cordelia could hear the words of their conversation perfectly well, but the rhythm of question and answer was regular enough to be background noise to her almost-nap. Often, in these overheard exchanges, the balance was uneven, as Miles chattered on solo about some topic, interrupted with the occasional "Mm" or "Huh" or -- when Bothari was getting impatient -- "Yes, m'lord." Or, less often, Miles was willing to listen while Bothari shared information; Cordelia had once heard him deliver a thorough and utterly surprising lecture on beekeeping. This afternoon's collaboration had a patterned, almost military cadence -- well, thoroughly military, she realized as she listened. Bothari would deliver a series of short-form answers to Miles's inquiries or what-nexts on a subject, and then turn around and quiz his young charge; in the minutes her ears recorded while the rest of her drowsed, they covered field-grade weapons, camp equipment for differing climates, space armor capabilities, breath-mask emergency protocols, and -- with mutual enthusiasm and disgust -- the levels of Service cuisine from top grade issue down to rat bars and what you ate when you didn't have those. The last was not likely to figure in Miles's far-future (and she wished it could be never) Academy exams, but she supposed it was useful data.

 _Really, though, Sergeant,_ she thought sleepily, _he's only seven. Don't indoctrinate him too early. He likes books, too, and desserts, and fishing. And horses. Horses are always good material._ To be fair, Bothari would go along with any topic Miles introduced, and was not ashamed to answer questions with "I don't know" when his erudition was limited. Though Miles had learned early how to tailor interrogation to his subject.

The conversation ceased for a moment, and Cordelia willed them to go on to geography or first aid or... camels, not that Bothari knew much about those, she didn't think; but it would probably be ship class designations. At least Miles wasn't likely to have his model collection with him. It was a long silence -- Bothari was good at waiting, and always glad not to have to talk -- and she was nearly asleep when Miles finally spoke.

"Sergeant," he said, "how do you kill a man?"

Cordelia came awake all at once into taut muscle-readiness, barely stopping herself from leaping up and... what? _That's enough of that, young man_ or _Miles, tell me all you know about the General-class cruisers?_ Once he set his mind to the matter, he wasn't likely to let himself be distracted. And it was, in some sense, a natural question for a child his age. She vaguely remembered inquiring about death at five or six; the answers had been pure Betan matter-of-factness and had produced several nightmares before being gentled away with theology. Miles had already seen dead animals, and she'd had a version of That Talk with him after one of Piotr's mares had birthed a still-born foal. But this... what a horrifically Barrayaran angle on the inevitability. And what a person to have asked.

She held her breath, praying for Bothari to be gruff and dismissive. Instead, he went almost Betan.

"There are... different ways," he said. "Why do you ask?"

"You have, haven't you? What did you use? Nerve disruptor? Plasma arc? Sword? Fish?"

" _Fish?_ "

"Swordfish! It's a joke. _Could_ you kill someone with a fish? If that was all you had? If you, like, hit someone really hard with it?"

"Fish are too soft. Hm. Frozen fish, maybe." Cordelia could almost see Bothari's brow wrinkling. "Or you could poison the fish and make someone eat it."

"Like when Grandda says 'eat what's put in front of you, or else go hungry'? I don't like fish. Well, I liked the fish I caught. It had pepper on it, and that sauce. You killed the fish for me. It was breathing and then you slapped it on the dock and it stopped. Would you kill a man for me, Sergeant?"

"Any particular man you have in mind, Lord Miles?"

"Not specially. What are the ways?" Bothari was quiet. "The ways of killing a man," Miles prompted. "Do a list."

"No, m'lord."

"Why not?"

 _Your mother wouldn't like it,_ Cordelia suggested, but Bothari didn't pick up the psychic urging. "Too long," he said.

"I can remember," Miles said, but then seemed to reconsider; maybe he thought Bothari's memory less good. Too good, where it existed, Cordelia knew; and unbearably painful where it was still lacking. "What's the worst?" Miles asked.

"Spacing," Bothari said instantly. "Put out the airlock into space. No air. You can't breathe, but it takes a little while to die. And it's cold."

Miles seemed to consider this. "You can't do that _here_ ," he said, a little suspiciously, as if he grasped that Bothari was distancing him from any immediate application of the topic. "I guess that's what the fish was doing, though. Right? It can't breathe air. Just water."

"That's right."

"So you hit it to make it die quicker." A grunt of acknowledgment. "Ma didn't eat the fish," Miles added.

"She doesn't like killing animals," Bothari said.

"Why?"

Cordelia had already explained her preference for vat protein to her son; she recognized this as collection of comparative data. "Most of them can't fight back," Bothari said. "And... they don't understand why you're killing them." The explanation was pretty consistent with what she'd said; Miles had agreed that killing animals was mean, and refused farm-raised rabbit for one night while Piotr glowered at Cordelia. Then he'd gone back to being an opportunistic carnivore.

"But people do understand," Miles said.

"Usually."

"Like 'you're my enemy.' 'Cause we don't eat people. It has to be war or something."

"Or something. Yes."

"Like the Cetagandans. Or the bad-Komarrans-which-is-only-a-few. Or Vordarian."

"Huh," said Bothari. "You learn about him in school?"

"Nah. Older kids do." Miles had only just started attending classes -- with other Vor children, naturally -- and had started right in complaining that the curriculum was not designed to meet his exact needs. "I heard about him from Grandda. There was a bloody head."

"The Count never told you that," Bothari said. Cordelia strained to hear; his breath seemed to be coming harder.

"He did! Well, not me exactly. I was hiding. But I heard. Ma cut his head off, and rolled it across the table. A different table, not the one I was under."

"That's not a proper story for little boys," said Bothari primly, sounding like Mistress Hysopi transformed into a bear.

"But did she? She won't kill animals, but bad men are different. He was a really bad man, wasn't he?"

"That he was. He... Lady Vorkosigan..." Bothari paused, and now Cordelia could hear the labored distress of his breathing without difficulty.

"Are you all right, Sergeant?" asked Miles. "You look funny."

"My head hurts."

It shouldn't, Cordelia thought. Despite more and better therapy, thinking about Escobar still pained and haunted him, ghosts and evil portents bearing knives. The memory of Vordarian, however, had never been erased. Associative pain, perhaps. Or just too much Miles... but she sat up anyway, prepared to intervene.

"You have to be brave about it, Sergeant," advised Miles. "Like I am when I break my bones."

A heavy sigh. "You're good and brave, m'lord. Like... like your mother." Bothari took a few more deep breaths and then said, "You asked me the wrong question."

"I did? Which one?" _There have been so many,_ Cordelia thought, amused despite herself. _At least he recognizes that nearly everything he says is a question._

"How to kill a man. You don't start with how. You start with..." Bothari paused.

"With why?" said Miles.

"When," Bothari said firmly. "When it's right."

"And how do you know?"

"Orders." A moment's silence followed while they both considered this. "You'll be an officer," Bothari added.

"So I can give the orders!" said Miles, and then, "Oh." He took another moment's thought and added, "Then I have to know why."

"They'll teach you that. At the Academy."

"But..." Miles, in tell-me-now mode, sought a reason to satisfy his curiosity. "What if someone was hurting you, Sergeant? Calling bad names and pulling your hair and, and, had a big knife, and I had one too, could I cut his head off? Or do I have to wait for a superior officer? And what if he said no?"

"Lord Miles," said Bothari, "what's this really about?" Miles was silent; Cordelia could sense him squirming. "Someone call you names at school?" He must have nodded, for Bothari went on, "You know what Lord Vorkosigan said to you about that."

"Being Vor means we hear insults and keep our anger in check. But they're Vor too! It's not like the boys in Hassadar. And Elena's not Vor and she never calls me names. Well, she calls me bossy, but not mutant and Little Betan Bug."

"She had better not," said Bothari. "But you're tough enough to hear such things and not swing your fists about."

"I'd just break my arms," said Miles glumly. "Ivan punched them," he said, brightening a bit.

"Good for Lord Ivan. Although," Bothari added, reconsidering, "I bet he got into trouble."

"Yeah. He got caned. He cried." _Good Lord,_ Cordelia thought. _Corporal punishment for seven-year-olds?_ She made a mental addition to her agenda on return to Vorbarr Sultana. "I don't think hitting is the best solution," said Miles, wisely.

"Neither is cutting throats," Bothari warned.

"Would they send me to prison?"

"You? Nah, they'd send you to ImpMil. And do things to your head. It wouldn't be pleasant."

"Like when Ivan put worms in my hair."

"Worse. Wait, he did what?"

"Last week. When he and I and Elena were helping the gardener."

"Oh, so that's what you call it." Bothari's voice had a gentle humor to it; Cordelia lay back again, reassured.

"Yeah. Do you know what's a fun way to cut flowers? First I pick up the scythe. Then Ivan holds me by the legs, and spins me round, and--"

"You mow down your enemies."

"Yeah! Though it didn't work very well," Miles admitted.

"Maybe," said Bothari, "you're looking at a precision assassination technique, not a general slaughter. Try scissors. And" -- he added, as Cordelia envisioned Miles's spine slumping in disappointment -- "Lord Ivan can be your shuttle pilot on a drop mission. As long as he doesn't actually drop you."

"And Elena can be Uncle Simon and tell me which flowers to assassinate."

"That's not what Captain Illyan--" Bothari stopped, presumably avoiding being caught in a flat-out lie. Simon did, on occasion, give such orders, though how Miles had picked that up Cordelia would like to know. Piotr, at his wine parties, was more likely to reminisce about Negri. Though Miles was smart enough to make the connection.

"Elena can transport the flowers back to the house," said Bothari; it was about as military a job as he would assign his active, hardy daughter.

"And I can interrogate them!" said Miles.

"Yes, m'lord," said Bothari. "You'll be good at that. Look," he said with obvious relief at the sound of approaching footsteps, "here comes Ma Mirmic from the kitchens. I bet she's got something you can help with, Lord Miles."

"Yes, indeed, m'lord," said the assistant cook, breathing hard. "I need just your touch with whipping the egg whites." _Into submission,_ Cordelia added.

"My arms are even stronger today," said Miles. "I'll help you. Sergeant, thank you for the conversation." Cordelia envisioned the lordly dismissive nod. "It was very useful. I'll pay great attention to what you said."

"You're welcome, Lord Miles. Good afternoon."

Miles and Ma Mirmic retreated down the path, chattering about soufflés. Cordelia expected Bothari's footsteps to follow them a moment later, but instead they came her way. She sat up again, smoothing her skirts, waiting for him.

"Armsman," she said when he appeared at the top of the path.

"Milady." He said nothing else, but came to stand by her side. She looked up; their eyes met; and then he knelt down and bowed his head onto the chair, next to her leg.

She hesitated a moment, and then put her hand on his hair. "Thank you," she whispered. He nodded his head, not lifting it. She stroked him, like a dog that had done her bidding, like the monster who loved her son, like one of the bravest men she knew on this planet that had made him and didn't deserve him.

_Rest in the sun, Sergeant. For a little while._


End file.
